


Silence

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Peacefulness, Quiet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 16:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Hello! Could you write a Bob Dylan fic that is fluffy? Like cuddling on the sofa and watching a movie while the reader runs her hands through his curls?'Sure can! Adorable springy-haired son.





	Silence

It is quiet, apart from the TV, and that’s how you like it – after a long day of having to do, and say, and arrange, and travel, you are content to just  _be_  right now, and that suits you and the man lying with his head on your lap just fine.

Your fingers pick gently through his curls; separating them one at a time, straightening them, pulling them long but not long enough to tug at his scalp, and then letting them bounce gently back against his scalp. His hair is so soft, fragranced with apple shampoo that you picked up, and you can’t stop running your fingers through it gently.

He is lying there, as far as you know, asleep, with his hand gripping onto your leg just above your socks; his hand is so warm, so reassuring and steady, that you feel safer just by him being there, and your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, gently massaging the skin between his curls and collar. As tinny music echoes from the TV, you gently slide your finger under his curls, fingertips fluttering on his scalp, and you hear him purr gently under his breath as you do so.

Outside, the night is quiet. No cars pass by your house. No birds call, so late at night. No animals rustle in the bushes. There is only the sound of the TV, and your breathing, and his, and you close your eyes, almost meditative in the moment.

“Y’know, (Y/N).” His voice is surprisingly deep for him, a little hoarse – he must’ve been sleeping, and he clears his throat. “Y’know, it’s times like this when I could just… sack it all off.”

“Hmm?” you ask, opening your eyes.

“It’s times like this,” he says, gently, “when bein’ with you is worth way more than any kind of musical anything, sweetheart.”


End file.
